A Secret (GL) - Chapter 23.1

“Pen pals” might belong to a different generation altogether; nowadays, “online romance” is far more popular and in tune with the times.

Gu Shuge was incredibly disappointed, muttering, “Sister is so old-fashioned,” as she reluctantly wrote a single “Mhm” on the paper. She paused, then, feeling a bit stubborn, added another line: “I won’t vanish.” She certainly wouldn’t just disappear mid-conversation; her soul-form was very stable and looked much less transparent now than it had when she first became a ghost.

As soon as she finished writing, she saw Shen Juan smile—a warm and peaceful expression. The gloom that had lingered after meeting Muzi had completely cleared away. Shen Juan asked with genuine concern, “Are you doing okay right now?”

Gu Shuge felt a soft prickle in her heart. She had expected Shen Juan’s first question to be about the case; after all, Shen Juan had been so focused on the investigation lately. She hadn’t expected her to ask about her well-being first.

Gu Shuge hadn’t really thought about whether she was “okay.”

Truthfully, of course, she wasn’t. A perfectly healthy person suddenly dies and becomes a ghost—she can’t touch the person she loves, no one can hear her speak, she can’t eat delicious food, and no one knows she exists. She’s completely isolated, exiled from the bustling world of the living, watching it all without being able to participate.

Described that way, it sounded tragic. Yet Gu Shuge had never felt lonely. Because Shen Juan was there. From the very first night Shen Juan sensed her, she hadn’t been afraid or avoidant; instead, she had actively sought ways to talk to her and stay close. Even when she received no response, she would speak to the air, sentence by sentence.

Actually, Gu Shuge knew that Shen Juan wasn’t naturally a talkative person; she could easily keep her thoughts to herself. The only reason she spoke them aloud was to ensure Shuge wasn’t lonely—to let her know she had never given up.

Fortunately, they had finally found a way to have a dialogue.

“I’m doing quite well,” Gu Shuge wrote with the pen. “Aside from not being able to touch things, not being seen, and having no body weight, it’s about the same as when I was alive. And with you talking to me, I don’t feel bored.”

Gu Shuge meticulously wrote down the most important part.

Shen Juan watched the words emerge stroke by stroke on the white paper, her eyes filled with heartache. She asked, “Is there anything you need?” Fearing Gu Shuge might not understand, she explained, “For example, incense, offerings, sacrifices, things like that.”

Whether in movies or fantasy stories, ghosts and gods are always associated with sacrifices and offerings from the living. Hearing Shen Juan ask this, Gu Shuge’s eyes crinkled into a smile. She wasn’t laughing at Shen Juan for being fooled by fictional works; she was just happy.

The way she said it clearly meant she wanted to “nourish” her through offerings.

Shen Juan had lit incense many times before, and it hadn’t affected her at all. So far, the only thing that lured her was Shen Juan’s blood. Gu Shuge glanced at the blood in the glass dish; she still wanted to drink it, she still felt hungry, and she even felt an impulse to consume it all.

She quickly turned her head away, calming the restless desire, and wrote two words: “I don’t.”

Shen Juan gave a soft “Oh” and instructed her, “If you need anything, you must tell me.”

Gu Shuge drew a smiley face on the paper.

Shen Juan smiled back. She seemed to have many things to say, but with so much on her mind, she didn’t know where to start. Gu Shuge felt the same. There were so many topics: her case, how she became a ghost, and… how much she had missed her these past few years. She had tried so hard to escape and ignore it, but the result was only that her longing had fermented, making Shen Juan’s image in her heart even deeper and more special.

Gu Shuge suddenly felt a wave of dejection.

Between her and Shen Juan, it was impossible to begin with. First, there was her brother, and now there was the barrier of life and death. Although she could remain as a ghost for now, what about the future? She would likely vanish eventually. And once she vanished, she would truly cease to exist.

They were likely destined never to be together.

In the study, as one fell silent and the other stopped writing, a quiet stillness descended. Shen Juan had been thinking of a better, more convenient way to communicate. Using a pen was fine, but it was heavy; Xiaoge would surely get tired after using it for a while. She had so many questions to ask; she had to find a simpler way.

As she was thinking, she suddenly felt a sense of loss—faint, yet undeniably present. Shen Juan paused to sense it; it wasn’t her own emotion, but something emanating from her left.

Shen Juan looked to her left and called out, “Xiaoge.”

The quill on the desk immediately floated upright, poised as if ready to write at a moment’s notice.

Shen Juan felt the sense of loss fade until it vanished. She pondered for a moment and asked tentatively, “Are you unhappy?”

Gu Shuge was stunned. She quickly looked down at the words she had just written—every word was normal, and she had even drawn a smiley face, looking very optimistic and cheerful. How did Shen Juan know she was unhappy?

The quill was held high, but there was no movement for a long time. Shen Juan thought for a bit and asked, “Do you not want to talk to Sister?”

This time, the quill quickly landed on the paper and wrote two words: “No, that’s not it.”

But she didn’t answer the previous question.

Shen Juan reflected for a moment and said, “Let’s have meat for dinner tonight.”

As soon as she spoke, Shen Juan felt a surge of joy from the left—still faint, almost undetectable if she didn’t focus. A moment later, the joy vanished abruptly, plummeting into anger. This anger was much stronger than the joy had been. Shen Juan remained calm on the surface, but she was startled inwardly.

“I can’t eat. I can’t taste anything,” Gu Shuge wrote.

With that, Shen Juan was certain: she could actually feel Xiaoge’s emotions. Though weak, the connection was real. Shen Juan didn’t mention this discovery aloud, saying apologetically, “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

The quill paused briefly and then wrote out a neat sentence: “It’s okay, I don’t want to eat anyway.” She sounded very reasonable.

Shen Juan bit her lip to keep from laughing and praised her, “Xiaoge is so cute.”

This time, what she felt was cheerfulness and pride.

It was miraculous—she couldn’t see her, yet she could feel her changing emotions. Shen Juan didn’t intend to reveal this; knowing Xiaoge’s personality, if the girl knew her emotions were being sensed, she might try to hide her sadness or dejection to avoid causing worry. That would be too exhausting for her.

“I’m wondering why only your blood can be touched by me,” a line appeared on the paper.

Shen Juan had also wondered about this.

Up until now, there were many questions—not just about the case, but also about why Gu Shuge had remained as a ghost after death. Shen Juan pulled the talisman pouch from her coat pocket.

She had carried it with her ever since taking it from Gu Shuge’s remains. Gu Shuge looked at the pouch and also felt it held many secrets. Shen Juan placed it on the desk. Gu Shuge instinctively reached out to touch it. Expecting her hand to pass through, she was surprised when her fingers stopped on the pouch, feeling the coarse texture of the fabric.

She touched it!

Gu Shuge was startled and instinctively cried out, “Sister!” As soon as she shouted, she remembered: her fingers were still stained with Shen Juan’s blood. The blood acted as a medium, allowing her to touch things; it wasn’t the pouch itself that was tangible.

A false alarm. Gu Shuge breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew her hand. Shen Juan, sensing her surprise, said, “Take a look. Is there anything special about this pouch?”

Gu Shuge wrote down what had happened: “I just touched it and got a scare, then I remembered I had your blood on my fingers.”

So that’s why. Shen Juan recalled something and said, “Before I gave this pouch to you, I also carried it for a while. Once, I accidentally cut my hand and blood got on it, but the bloodstain vanished very quickly.”

Did that mean the pouch “drank” blood? No, it probably wasn’t just blood. Gu Shuge had worn it for two years, yet it still looked brand new, without any signs of wear or age.

She thought for a moment and began writing: “My body was crushed quite badly. I looked closely; the clothes it was against were covered in blood, but the pouch wasn’t stained.” Now it seemed it wasn’t that it wasn’t stained, but that it had absorbed the blood.

The pouch was starting to seem a bit eerie. However, the monk at Guangping Temple had called it a “spiritual artifact,” and Master Jingyun had described it as a sacred Buddhist object that could ward off a fatal calamity. Shen Juan picked up the pouch and opened it again, looking inside and out. With the naked eye, nothing unusual could be seen. Even the Buddha statue and the talisman paper inside carried the unique scent of sandalwood common in temples.

Gu Shuge also felt the pouch wasn’t a bad thing, as it really had blocked a fatal calamity for her once. She raised the pen, wanting to write about that incident, but then realized that explaining it in detail would likely take hundreds of words. She currently took a while just to write a long sentence; writing hundreds of words would take all night.

Gu Shuge stopped herself, deciding to wait until Shen Juan went to sleep to slowly recall and record the story.

For now, she just offered a hypothesis, writing: “Maybe the pouch acts as a vessel. Both of our blood has touched it, so they have merged. That’s why I can touch your blood.”

That made sense. But Shen Juan raised another question: “If it was someone else’s blood on the pouch instead of mine, would you be able to touch them instead?”

Gu Shuge felt this was just a discussion of possibilities, but upon closer thought, it felt a bit off. She felt that answering “yes” or “no” both seemed wrong, so she held the pen without letting it touch the paper.

Shen Juan looked at the brown feathers of the quill and said softly, “I thought it was because of some bond between us.”

What bond? Gu Shuge was puzzled. Holding the pen was getting tiring. To a human, a quill is weightless, but to her, it felt as heavy as a steel rod. However, she felt what Shen Juan said made sense, so she followed her lead: “True. If any blood would do, it would be too casual. Doesn’t Buddhism place a lot of emphasis on ‘fated encounters’?”

At this, a faint smile flickered in Shen Juan’s eyes, though her voice remained calm as she said, “It’s possible.”

Unlike Shen Juan, who could only see dry words on paper, Gu Shuge could see her, her expressions, and hear the tone of her voice.

Sister seems satisfied. Gu Shuge was a bit confused and also a bit disappointed. She had thought that if merely dropping blood onto the pouch and merging it with her own was enough to create a medium, then they could just use someone else’s blood so they wouldn’t have to use Shen Juan’s.

She still hated that Shen Juan had to cut her finger. That cut just now had been quite deep to get half a dish of blood. Shen Juan had put a band-aid on it immediately after, but Gu Shuge had seen the wound and thought it looked very painful.

However, whether a “bond” was required or if any blood would work wasn’t something they could deduce just by guessing; they had to test it.

Gu Shuge wrote: “Let’s try someone else’s blood.” She looked out the window; it was still light enough to have someone deliver some.

Shen Juan replied, “Okay.”

For the most part, Shen Juan was a rational person. Like Gu Shuge, she knew they had to experiment to determine which theory was correct.

She made a phone call. Gu Shuge initially thought she was calling Lin Mo, but after a few sentences, she realized it was their family doctor. The doctor’s surname was Mu; he ran a private clinic and was highly regarded for both his ethics and skills. Gu Shuge had seen him for every illness since she was a child.

Seeing that Shen Juan was calling Dr. Mu, she quickly wrote on the paper: “Disinfect, wound care.”

While speaking, Shen Juan spared a glance for the paper and nodded.

Gu Shuge sat in the chair and waited for the call to end.

After a brief conversation to explain the situation, Shen Juan hung up. She then took out the tablet she had used for the audiobooks, opened a blank document, and placed it on the desk. “Using a pen is fine at home, but when we go out, an electronic device would be more convenient. See if you can type on the tablet.”

Gu Shuge thought this made sense. Modern touchscreens are very sensitive; as long as she could touch the screen, it would respond, which would be much easier than holding a pen.

Gu Shuge dipped her finger in the blood again. Only a short time had passed, but the blood in the dish was already beginning to coagulate, turning into a semi-gelatinous state. She intended to type the words “Add water” to remind Shen Juan to dilute the blood.

She tapped her finger on the screen.

No response.

Gu Shuge used all the strength she could muster to poke the screen hard, but still, nothing happened. She was stunned. Had her strength been used up by the pen, leaving her unable to even press a screen?

She hesitated, then tapped the back of Shen Juan’s hand to see how much force she was using.

Shen Juan was focused on the tablet, waiting for words to appear. When she was suddenly tapped, she froze for a moment and asked, “What is it?”

She can feel it? Gu Shuge thought for a moment, increased her strength, and tapped Shen Juan’s hand again.

The increased strength made almost no difference. Having been tapped twice for no apparent reason, Shen Juan didn’t know what Shuge wanted, but she held out her palm and asked, “You can write in my hand.”

She assumed Xiaoge was tired of holding the pen and wanted to be lazy. Even if the writing in her palm was slow, she would be able to feel the characters.

Gu Shuge’s eyes lit up. Right! Besides using a pen, she could write directly in Shen Juan’s palm.

She reached out her finger, ready to write, but then she hesitated. Is writing in a palm too intimate? As she wavered, Shen Juan waited for a moment. Seeing no movement, she asked, “What’s wrong? Not writing?”

Gu Shuge bit her lip. She told herself that writing in a palm wasn’t intimate at all, and even if it were, she was the only one who would feel that way. Shen Juan didn’t know her heart, so she wouldn’t think twice about it.

With that, she managed to convince herself.

Gu Shuge lowered her finger and slid it across Shen Juan’s palm. Her movements were very light; a lighter touch meant less resistance, which saved energy.

Shen Juan only felt a ticklish sensation in her palm, like a small animal gently licking it. She curled her lips slightly but immediately regained her composure to feel the characters Gu Shuge was writing.

The first character Gu Shuge wrote was “Press.” After finishing the first, she paused for a long time before writing the second, “Not,” followed by another pause, and finally the third, “Moving.”

Together, it meant: “Can’t press it.”

“You can’t press the screen?” Shen Juan asked.